An Experiment in Osculation
by cactusnell
Summary: Molly has grown tired of her daydreams, and wants to experience a bit of reality. Sherlolly.
It was almost at the end of Molly Hooper's shift at St. Bart's, and she had been growing more and more restless by the minute. This, of course, had not gone unnoticed by the consulting detective hunched over his favorite microscope at the next table. Virtually every time he lifted his eyes from the 'scope, he noticed the sudden movement of her head as she averted her own eyes. She had evidently been staring at him for quite some time, and he was beginning to buckle under the weight of her gaze. Holmes had always rather liked, he had to admit to himself, being the object of her attention. He liked the way he could make her blush. The stammer he could live without, but, thankfully, that had all but vanished in the past couple of years. But the staring was becoming a bit disconcerting, he must admit, if only for the fact that it meant that he could not easily observe her, as he was wont to do more and more often lately.

Sherlock Holmes liked looking at Molly Hooper, he just refused to acknowledge, even to himself, why this was so. He liked watching her as she made her way through her lab, white coat flapping around her. He liked watching her chew on her lower lip when presented with a puzzling finding in a report. He enjoyed observing her as she stood at an autopsy table in the morgue, elbow deep in a gaping chest cavity, smiling as she tried to remove errant strands of hair from her face by puffing out well directed blasts of breath from her not-to-small mouth. But today he was becoming more and more annoyed because her staring was interfering drastically his own staring.

Molly knew she had been caught, several times, looking fixedly at the gorgeous man just across the lab. The first time, she had been a bit embarrassed, but after the third time, she just gave an internal shrug. Surely the man had known for years how he affected her. She may not stammer anymore, but her attraction to him had not diminished in the least. How could it? She thought he was perfect, from his dark curls to his tropical ocean colored eyes. He could have left a trail of broken and bruised hearts behind him had it not been for the detached coolness of his demeanor, which strongly contrasted with the undeniable hotness of his physical self. But Molly had long ago decided that Sherlock Holmes was not nearly as cool, calm, and collected as he presented himself to be. She had seen him at his most vulnerable, almost broken. She knew that the wall of ice he built around himself was merely to protect himself, or, as he surely saw it, to protect others from him. And Molly had decided that she needed no such protection. She was just now deciding what she should do about it. When she finally reached a decision, she rose from the lab stool.

Sherlock heard the stool across the room slide away from the table, and then heard footsteps heading in his direction. Evidently, whatever Molly had been contemplating, she was now ready to let him in on it. By the time he lifted his head, the petite pathologist was standing next to him, silently demanding his attention.

"Molly, is there something you need?", he asked as he swivelled his stool slightly to face her.

Molly Hooper straightened her spine, put her hands on her hips, and said, quite calmly, "I need you to kiss me, Sherlock."

This was certainly not what the consulting detective had been expecting. A request to clean up after himself, perhaps, or maybe even to return the small pieces of equipment he had been "borrowing" from the facility for years, these requests he could deal with. But this was...oddly unsettling.

"I kiss you all the time, Dr. Hooper…"

"Not 'all the time', you git. And only on the cheek…"

"Sometimes the forehead, remember!"

"Either way, not the kind of kiss I'm talking about, Sherlock. I want a real kiss. Involving lip on lip action! Maybe a bit of tongue, if it seems appropriate. A veritable snogging session!"

"Molly, what has brought this on? I hardly think that such behavior would be conducive to a good working relationship."

"Is that the extent of our relationship, Sherlock? I thought we were friends!"

"We are friends, damn it! I just don't see fit to go around snogging my friends. John is my friend, too, and he never felt the need to make such a request!"

"Perhaps you ought to make that clear to Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock. She is still laboring under the belief that Mary is the most accommodating beard in the UK!"

The detective heaved a heavy sigh. "Look, Molly, don't you think you should reconsider. After all…"

And Sherlock was, indeed, processing. He studied the woman in front of him, nervously shifting from one foot to the other. All she was asking for was a kiss, but he knew if he gave it to her, so much more would follow, at least if he had any say in the matter. For, as she was making her request, rather endearingly, he thought, he realized that anything Molly Hooper did or said would appear endearing to him. She was endearing as she browsed through her reports, enchanting as she pulled bloody organs out of unnamed cadavers, adorable as she cried at a sad movie, captivating as she trudged up the stairs at Baker Street carrying an ice chest full of experimental material, and utterly irresistible as she stood quietly in front of him patiently awaiting his answer.

"Sherlock, I know you're thinking it over, but the delay is beginning to seem a bit insulting. I know I'm not Miss Universe here, but I'm not chopped liver, either. Just put your arms around me, think of England, and get it over with. You don't have to like it, just do it for me, okay?"

"What makes you think I wouldn't like it, Molly? Mrs. Hudson's surmises to the contrary, I am completely heterosexual, I assure you. And you are a beautiful woman."

At the last remark, Molly could feel herself begin to blush. It was one thing to make her request in a reserved, businesslike manner, but for Sherlock Holmes, man of her dreams, to imply that he would enjoy the experience as much as she would, to hint that he found her beautiful, was something else entirely. It opened the door to possibilities she did not want to entertain, for fear of being so sorely disappointed. Perhaps she should back pedal a bit.

"Look, Sherlock, if you really don't want to, I understand…"

"No, Molly, not at all. It's just that I may be a bit out of practice, that's all. I don't want to disappoint you, after all. But I suppose it's a bit like riding a bicycle, right? And you must remember that I tend to have an addictive personality. How do you intend to handle the situation if I like it a bit too much?"

She could barely stammer out the words, "What do you mean? Like it too much?"

"Well, addicts tend to need increasing doses of the addictive substance, as you well know. What happens when I start craving more that a kiss, or a snog? Are you prepared to supply me, or need I check into rehab yet again?"

"Well...ah...I could...maybe," Molly realized with yet another blush that her long-gone stammer had reappeared.

Sherlock was still yammering on, however. "We could wind up living together, you, me, our spawn..."

"Kids?! You're talking about kids, Sherlock?"

"A natural progression, wouldn't you say?"

"How many are we talking about, Sherlock?"

"Well, I would be happy with more than one, but not quite enough to land us a reality show on the telly…"

Molly was still trying to process the idea that the dishy detective was suggesting that her simple request for a kiss could have such far reaching consequences. Surely, he was having her on. But she almost stopped thinking entirely as his arms snaked around her waist and he pulled her closer before bringing his lips down to meet hers. It started slowly, but soon built in intensity, Molly felt her arms drift around his body as if on their own volition, then one hand went to caress his jaw and work its way further upward to his marvelous curls. The man definitely had not forgotten how to "ride a bike". What small portion of her mind which was still capable of thought recalled a conversation she had had with Mycroft, when he recounted, with a smirk, that her erstwhile "boyfriend" Moriarty had referred to the he and Sherlock as the "Iceman and the Virgin", respectively. Well, if this was the way the Virgin kissed, she imagined the Iceman could possibly be a fire hazard. Then, she gave up thinking entirely, giving herself over to a moment she truly believed would never happen again. When their lips finally parted ways, Molly was surprised that the detective seemed in no hurry to release her, instead holding her gently to his chest. She nestled her cheek against his shirt, sighing gently and breathing rather rapidly as she regained her senses. Finally, she spoke. "Thank you, Sherlock. That was very nice."

The taller man looked down at her with a slight smile. "Nice, Molly? I was hoping for a bit more than 'nice'. Perhaps we should try again?" And then the marvelous moment, the moment she thought she'd never experience again, repeated itself. And she knew she was lost. She had hoped that the kiss she had longed for for so long would help relieve her infatuation, prove to her, in some way, that the reality could never live up to the fantasies she had entertained. Instead, she found that it far surpassed any fantasy. By leaps and bounds. She now had to live with the fact that no one had ever made her feel like this, and no one ever would in the future. She had doomed herself to a future of knitting jumpers and raising cats. She would die old and alone. The only high point was that she would always remember that kiss. But even that thought couldn't prevent the tears escaping her eyes, working their way slowly down her cheeks.

When Sherlock once again pulled away, he, of course, noticed the tears. "What's wrong, Molly? Have I done something 'not good', as John would say?"

"No, Sherlock. That was definitely 'good'. Excellent, in fact. Mind blowing. Life changing. Extraordinary. Brilliant!" Molly could hear herself stammering out the words as her tears came more quickly. "I'm running out of descriptive adjectives, here, mate!" she said, as she wiped away the tears with the sleeve of her lab coat.

"Good. It seems we're on the same page."

Molly tried to make light of his apparent egoism. "Don't get so full of yourself, Sherlock. There's always room for improvement."

He stared at her for a brief moment before saying, "I think you misunderstand me, Molly. I was not taking complete credit for, what I consider, the extraordinary success of the experiment. A kiss is a cooperative effort, I believe, between partners. And if you think that there is room for further improvement, I am more than willing to try, at great length, if need be. As it's now your quitting time, perhaps we should adjourn to Baker Street, eh? I do feel compelled to warn you, however, that the first tendrils of my new addiction have already taken hold, so, if you're not willing to accommodate me, it would be kinder to cut me loose now and allow me to quit 'cold turkey,' as it were…"

Molly giggled, happily, and said the first thing to come into her mind, which turned out to be yet another one of her awful jokes. "Don't worry, Mr. Holmes, I intend to keep your turkey very warm, indeed!"

Sherlock Holmes looked down, laughing, at the woman he still held in his arms, the very woman he had, regretfully, kept at arm's length for so long. "Please tell me, Dr. Hooper, that your sense of humor will not be passed along to our children." He tried to sound stern.

"Better my sense of humor than your sense of charm, you git! We Hoopers are noted for our humor, our conviviality, our joie de vivre…"

"I can see it's a rather dangerous gene pool into which I'm about to dive, Molly…"

"Don't worry, mate. I'm a certified lifeguard. I'll save you."

"You already have, Molly. In so many ways," he whispered into her ear, as he continued to hold her close. It took some time for them to actually make it to Baker Street, but Sherlock was gratified to note that by the time they made it there, Molly had already referred to it as "home" at least twice. And he intended to ensure that she continued to think of it that way.


End file.
